


Tangerine

by erebones



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Family Dynamics, Getting Together, M/M, Online Dating, Single Parents, Tinder, Trans Claude von Riegan, Trans Male Character, mentions of divorce
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:40:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25902208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Lorenz is not accustomed to spontaneity. From childhood, his life was planned out for him: study hard, get into a good school, acquire a sufficiently impressive business degree, and work for his father until he retires. Oh, and marry well, have enough heirs to placate their overbearing parents, and see to it that the Gloucester name lives on for another generation.He doesn't plan on being gay, or being disowned, or getting a divorce. And he certainly doesn't plan on hitting it off with a stranger he met on Tinder, who knows nothing about his past or his ex-wife or his five-year-old son.He might be a little in over his head, but at least he's not the only one.
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 27
Kudos: 132





	1. the match

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!TURN ON CREATOR'S STYLE FOR PROPER FORMATTING!!
> 
> this fic features inline text messages, which won't show up properly if you don't turn on creator's style, so please do that at the top right of this page! unfortunately they won't work if this fic is downloaded to an e-reader, sorry for the inconvenience!

“Left.”

“What about this one?”

“Left.”

“...Okay. This one?”

“Mm… left.” _Swipe. Swipe. Swipe._ “Left. Right—no, wait, left.”

“Lorenz!”

“What?”

Marianne sighs and sets his phone face-up on the couch, giving him a stern look. The kind of look she never would have _dared_ to give him five years ago. Lorenz glows with pride even as he quails from that direct, unimpressed stare. “You can’t just swipe left on all of them! How else are you going to meet someone nice? Besides, you can’t always tell a book by its cover.”

“I can’t help it if I have high standards,” Lorenz sniffs. Then, thinking to play the flattery angle: “You set a high bar, my dear.”

“Oh, shut up,” Mari says, but she’s smiling even as she rolls her eyes. “We’re not talking about me right now. We’re talking about _you_ , and how sometimes you have to take a chance! Here, let’s try again, and this time we’re going to _read profiles_ instead of just skimming by.”

Lorenz scowls. “Fine.”

“Just remember, you agreed to this,” she says, settling back in at his side. The warmth of her arm against his is so much more soothing now, after everything. When they’d still had wedding rings on their fingers it had been difficult to enjoy even the innocent touches. “How about this one?”

“I don’t like redheads,” Lorenz says immediately, but softens at her glare. “Okay, fine. What does his blurb say?”

“His name is _Sylvain_. He’s 32, likes volleyball and sex on the beach—”

“The drink, I hope,” Lorenz interrupts.

“Doesn’t say,” Mari says blandly. “ _Ahem_. He works in the technology sector, lives in Faerghus but he’s in Derdriu for the summer and looking for something casual—”

“Left.”

“Lorenz, there’s nothing wrong with casual! I thought you said you preferred it.”

“I certainly don’t want to jump feet-first into marriage, but I’m not sure I want the flavor of _casual_ he’s offering.” Lorenz gives her his best puppy dog eyes. “Please?”

Mari sighs and swipes left. “All right, I suppose he wasn’t really your style. Ooh, he looks handsome!”

Lorenz peers at the screen dubiously. “That’s the fifth man holding a fish I’ve seen tonight.”

“So he’s an outdoorsman! What’s wrong with that?”

“He’s also forty-five. I think I have a few more years in me before _middle-aged bear_ is my only option.”

Marianne snorts in a most unladylike fashion. “All right, left on _Alois_ , then. Oh dear.” She swipes before he can even lay eyes on the photo.

“Wait, who was that?”

“I didn’t even have to show you, I just knew you wouldn’t like him. Trust me.”

Lorenz rubs his eyes wearily and reaches for the half-empty popcorn bowl. Swiping on Tinder at his ex-wife’s chic Derdriu flat after putting their five-year-old son to sleep is certainly up there on the list of weird things he’s done in the six months or so since his divorce, but at least Marianne’s enthusiastic. It’s good to see her smiling so freely, and that alone is worth the humiliation of—

“What do you think of this one, Lorrie?”

“Oh,” he says, and quickly shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

“ _Oh_?” Mari echoes. She wiggles her eyebrows at him. “Is that a good _oh_ , or a bad _oh_?”

“Can’t talk,” he mumbles behind his hand. “Chewing.”

“Uh-huh. Well let’s take a closer look, shall we?”

His ex-wife, merciless harpy that she is, opens the man’s profile for a better look. Lorenz skims the blurb to avoid looking directly at the twinkling smile and broad shoulders. His name is Claude; he’s 32, bisexual, and _gorgeous_. Mari keeps flipping through the pictures, oblivious to Lorenz’s utter silence, revealing shots of him on a rugged mountain trail; on a blindingly white beach almost as brilliant as his smile; on the deck of a sailboat with his shirt off; and finally what looks like a selfie with someone else, softened with an Instagram filter and cut in half to show only his face, dimpled and shadowed by two-day stubble.

“Sounds promising,” Marianne suggests, all studied innocence. “ _Bi guy looking for some casual fun but open to more. No transphobes, no under-30’s, witty conversationalists preferred._ That’s basically you in a nutshell.”

Lorenz groans. “Don’t remind me.”

“Which part, no one under thirty?”

“Do you ever think about how quickly life is passing us by? How many years we wasted—”

“All right, that’s enough. We’re having _fun_ tonight, remember? No getting all maudlin on me, Lorenz, you’re a bit young for a midlife crisis.” Marianne puts the phone down and turns to him, sitting cross-legged on the couch in her sweatpants and one of Lorenz’s old college tee-shirts. Back when he wore _tee-shirts_ at all. How young they’d been. How— “Lorenz! Snap out of it.” Mari puts her hands to his cheeks, forcing him to look at her. “Just think of all the time we’ve _saved_ , doing this. And anyway, it wasn’t _all_ wasted, was it.” She smiles, sad and happy at the same time, a funny combination that sticks in his throat like a marble. “We have Nicky. And we still have each other, don’t we?”

“Always,” Lorenz says roughly. He pulls her into a hug and kisses the top of her head. It doesn’t smell the same. “Did you switch conditioners?”

“Ye-es.” She withdraws a bit, peeping up at him like she’s expecting to be reprimanded. “It’s a brand my friend at the barn told me about, it’s packaging-free and it comes in a bar shape—nevermind. I like it, it makes my hair soft.”

“It’s nice,” Lorenz says, noting the way her eyes flicker at the mention of _my friend_ and filing it away for later. “And you’re right, of course, as usual. It wasn’t a waste.”

Marianne smiles, this time without any sadness in the faint creases around her eyes. “I know we have regrets, but it’s okay to appreciate the good parts, too.”

Lorenz jerks his chin in agreement, too choked up to respond. She pats his arm and slips off the couch.

“I’m going to put this away,” she says, gathering the popcorn bowl. It’s got some left still from their weekly rewatch of _Trolls 2_ , Nicky’s current obsession, but it’s getting a bit stale so Lorenz doesn’t protest. “Did you want a refill?”

“Just some water, thanks.”

Marianne pads from the room and Lorenz turns his blurry vision to his phone. Claude, 32, is still staring up at him, green eyes generously crinkled, dark curls falling over his brow in that effortlessly charming way that has always eluded Lorenz. The dimple in his left cheek is deeper than the one on his right.

Lorenz reaches down and, in a moment of pure resolve, swipes.

“Mari!”

Footsteps patter swiftly back into the living room and Marianne rushes to his side. “What is it, are you all right? Is Nicky—?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I just…” Mutely, Lorenz turns the phone to face her. Instantly the concern on her face transforms to dazzling delight, her grin wide and just a little bit wicked.

“You matched!” she crows, then slaps her own hand over her mouth with a guilty glance to the hallway. Quieter this time, she kneels on the couch and flings her arms around him. “You matched! That means he saw your profile first and liked it!”

“I know what it means,” Lorenz grumbles, brushing long blue hair out of his face. “I just… what do I do _now_?”

Some of the mischievous glee fades, replaced by a gently furrowed brow. “Ummm. Well, you respond, right? I mean you message him and say you want to meet.”

“ _Do_ I want to meet?”

“I don’t know!” Marianne laughs. She snatches his phone out of his hands and flops onto the couch, head at one end and legs draped comfortably over his lap. “Let me see…”

“Mari—”

“I won’t send anything without your approval, okay? I promise.” She wiggles her toes imperiously and he sighs, digging his thumb into her arches one at a time. “Aren’t you excited?” She asks, fingers already moving over the keyboard. “He thought you were cute!”

“I am not _cute_ ,” Lorenz grumbles, but despite his protests he’s… gratified. Putting his profile together had been an ordeal, and he’d had to rely on Marianne and some of her “barn friends” for advice. He _used_ to be better at this sort of thing; but then he and Marianne were engaged by sophomore year of college, married shortly after graduation, and that was it. There was no need to _put himself out there_ , or make an effort to be sexually appealing to the opposite sex—or the same sex, as it turned out, which is an entirely different ballgame entirely.

“Handsome, then,” Marianne says staunchly, oblivious to his internal dithering. “Smart. Classy. Well-bred—”

“Shush yourself,” Lorenz mutters as his cheeks turn pink. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“No, _you’re_ the ridiculous one!” She wiggles her toes with more fervor, and he redoubles his efforts. “This is just what we talked about: taking risks, trying new things. Here.” She extends his phone toward him. “What do you think?”

He’d been so caught up in his nerves he’d forgotten she was typing a message. As promised, it’s only a draft, brief and to the point.

Hey there, I’m flattered you swiped right. I confess I’m still new to the world of dating apps, but your profile was intriguing and I’d like to get to know you better. Do you prefer DMing or are face to face chats more your style? -Lorenz  
  


“Hmmmmm. Do I really need to sign my name? I mean, my username is right there.”

Marianne shrugs, tucking a little smile into her sleeve. “Whatever you prefer. You used to sign your texts with your full name so I thought—”

“ _Mari_ …”

“Well you did!” she laughs. “It’s fine, change whatever you like.”

He peers at the screen myopically. “ _Hey there_ feels so informal, but I suppose it _is_ sort of an informal platform…”

“Don’t overthink it, Lorrie.”

“I’m _trying_.” He huffs through his nose, deletes his name, and presses send. Then immediately flies into a panic, flinging his phone at her and grabbing a throw pillow to stifle himself with. “Goddess, what am I _doing?_ ”

“Your best!” Marianne says staunchly. She sits up and peels the pillow away from his face with a gentle smile. “I’m proud of you. The first step is always the hardest.”

Their marriage counselor—or rather, their un-marriage counselor—had said something similar when they first starting seeing them, and the reminder is soothing. Then there’s a subtle _bzzt_ against his hip and all the calm he managed to cultivate flies out the window.

“He replied already!” Marianne crows. “Wow, he must really like you.”

“Ugh. Don’t speak too soon, he might be writing to tell me to fuck off.” Swallowing his nerves—he’s a grown man, for goodness’ sake—Lorenz picks up his phone and checks the notification.

Hey there yourself :) don’t worry this is new to me too, i wouldn’t have even got my profile set up if my friend hadn’t bullied me into it  
  


“Somewhat lacking in punctuation,” Lorenz murmurs, although Claude’s reassurance had done a great deal to put him at ease. “And he didn’t answer my question.”

“Give him a minute,” Marianne whispers. She’s migrated back to sitting at his side, cheek to his shoulder as she watches the screen like a hawk. “Maybe he’s still typing. Did you turn off read receipts?”

“Of course.”

_Bzzt._

Honestly im kind of an in-person guy, but I don’t mind laying a little groundwork first, if that’s ok?  
  


Lorenz’s chews his lip. “Should I wait?”

“What? Why?”

“Isn’t it considered… uncouth to reply too quickly?”

“It’s also _uncouth_ to send multiple texts in a row, and he already broke that rule. So I think you’re okay.”

“I don’t know how anyone memorizes all these rules,” Lorenz mutters. He’s got his thumbs on the screen ready to type a response when a _third_ text arrives.

Also don’t stress about responding right away, im a chatty person but i know not everyone is. Plus i’m bored out of my mind watching this film my friend recommended, so i have to occupy myself somehow lol  
  


A smile curls reluctantly at the edges of Lorenz’s mouth, and before he realizes it he’s typed a response and sent it off into the ether.

Well we can’t have you perishing of boredom quite yet, we’ve only just met.  
  


“Perfect,” Mari whispers, “you’re doing brilliantly.”

“Hush. I need to concentrate.”

She snickers, but lays her head on his shoulder to watch him laboriously type out a more thorough reply, second-guessing every other word until he’s satisfied enough to send it. In the meantime Claude responds with a winking emoji, which is cute but not much to go on in the way of conversation, so Lorenz sticks to the topic at hand.

My profile exists only by the good graces of my friends, so don’t worry—you’re not alone. As long as the pictures and the blurb are true to life you have nothing to worry about. I’m amendable to laying groundwork, as you put it; I think it’s generally preferred not to go in blind, so to speak, yes? What sort of groundwork did you have in mind?  
  


When he finishes and presses send he lays his head back on the couch, feeling as though he’s just run a sprint. “How do people _do_ this?” he wonders aloud.

“Practice, I think. We’re just a little bit behind the curve.” Mari smothers a yawn behind her wrist. “Stay as long as you like, I’m just going to brush my teeth.”

“‘Course.” He leans toward her on instinct—a sterile kiss on the cheek was the only intimacy they shared for years, apart from their brief attempts to conceive. In the year since they began the long road to divorce, they’ve developed more healthy physical habits than they’d cultivated in all the years prior; but he still catches himself even now, six months after the final papers were signed, falling into those habits, the ruts they’d worn stubbornly into the unfeeling track of their marriage.

Thankfully Marianne is already up and shuffling off to the bathroom, oblivious to his awkwardness. Then his phone buzzes in his hand, saving him from himself.

Don’t worry, the pics are 100% authentic. I think one of them might have a filter, but the rest are legit. I don’t take a lot of selfies, so there wasn’t much to work with for close-ups. Apparently those are important?  
Having been through the “match” ordeal I can see why. It’s reassuring to know what a person looks like up close.  
  


Lorenz hesitates, then tacks on: _you have beautiful eyes._

Candids are good for that too, makes you feel like you’re talking to a real person.  
  
Aw shucks, thank you. You’re not too shabby yourself ;)  
  
But about that groundwork I mentioned. Basically I just want to be upfront about some things. First is that I’m pretty fresh off a long-term relationship that didn’t end well, about three months ago. This is kind of me trying to get back into the swing of things, you know? I’m not looking for the next love of my life or whatever, just new friends, a little fun, that kind of thing.  
  
If that didn’t scare you off, I want to be upfront and say I’m a trans guy. I don’t fuck around with people before knowing whether they’re going to be weird or an ass about it. That’s my dealbreaker.   
  


Lorenz stares at the message, a bit taken aback. Not by the content, but by the formatting: in the space of two messages he’s taken on a very straightforward tone, no emojis, no dropped apostrophes or lack of proper punctuation. He decides this is probably not the time to dither with his response.

That’s fair. To the first point, I’m in a similar boat. To the second point, I have no issue with it. At the risk of sounding like a twat, I have several trans friends and consider myself committed to trans and gender nonconforming allyship. I am cis myself, however. Mostly.   
  
Mostly???  
  
You don’t have to answer that btw :)  
  
And you don’t sound like a twat, don’t worry. A little overly careful but I appreciate the sentiment. Honestly if I wasn’t interested before I definitely am now lol  
  
It sounds like we’re on the same page… unless there was anything else you’d like to discuss?  
  
The only thing I want to discuss is whether I can pick you up on Friday and take you to dinner.  
  


“You’re blushinggg.”

Lorenz startles and looks up from his phone. Marianne has changed into her pajamas and has her hair in a sloppy bun, even though he’s told her a thousand times it causes breakage to wear an elastic while you sleep. He gets to his feet and shoves his phone in his pocket.

“Well?”

“I… might have a date Friday.”

Mari claps her hands softly, mindful of their sleeping son a few rooms away. “I knew you could do it! I’m so proud of you, Lorrie.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you, Berry.” He hugs her, and feels sweet relief when she hugs back, closer and easier than it’s been in a long time. “I’ll let you go to bed now. Thank you for your help, and your encouragement.”

“It was my pleasure.” She steps back, straightening her nightshirt. “I want to hear all about your date—if you want to tell me, I mean.”

“I feel like I owe it to you at this point,” he admits. “Do you mind if I check in on Nicky before I leave?”

“Of course not, silly. He’s your son, too.”

Mari takes his hand in her own, so small and cool and soft, and leads him down the hall to Nicky’s room. It’s tucked between the bathroom and the master suite, and is lit faintly by a purple nightlight shaped like a rocketship. Lorenz slips alone through the cracked-open door and tiptoes to the edge of the bed.

Nicolò Berlioz Gloucester von Edmund sleeps peacefully with his knees tucked under him, bum in the air and pale lavender curls arrayed like a halo on his pillow. Lorenz pulls the blankets a little higher and kisses the top of his head. Nicky sighs in his sleep, but doesn’t otherwise stir. Lorenz watches him a little while longer, cataloguing his little whiffly breaths, the tuck of his thumb against his chubby cheek where he was sucking on it before falling asleep. He’s so small in Lorenz’s eyes, even though he remembers when he was first born, four weeks early, so small and sickly they feared for his life. And now here he is, snoring into his Thomas the Tank Engine themed bedding, sweetly oblivious to the turmoil of his little life. Hopefully, Lorenz thinks, it’ll stay that way.

The buzz of his phone in his pocket startles him out of his contemplation, and he shakes off the melancholy, leaving his son’s room as quietly as he’d entered.

Marianne is puttering about the living room when he enters, picking up stray pieces of lost popcorn, folding the throw blanket they’d draped over their laps with Nicky between them, a parody of a proper little family. She straightens and gives him a soft-creased smile. “Headed out?”

Lorenz gives himself a little shake. “Yes. Thank you for tonight, and for… well, everything.”

“You said that already.” Marianne eyes him a moment, then circumnavigates the couch to embrace him, cheek resting right at the base of his sternum. “It was good to see you. Don’t be a stranger, okay? Nicky loves it when you visit.”

“And I love seeing him. And you.” Lorenz allows himself a kiss to the top of her head before stepping away. “Goodnight, Mari.”

“G’night, Lorenz.” Marianne gives his hand a squeeze and sees him to the door. “Drive safe.”

“I will.”

He rides the elevator down in thoughtful, hopeful quiet, only remembering to check his phone when he reaches the parking garage.

Or we can meet somewhere. I’ll eat almost anything, you can pick the place.  
  
Friday at six thirty, Tangerine on the corner of 12th and Sunset. You know it?  
  
I’ve heard of it, never been. I hear it’s fancy.  
  
I can foot the bill.  
  
That’s not a concern, don’t worry. It’ll be nice to have an excuse to dress up.  
  
Did you want to exchange numbers?  
  


Lorenz texts him his number as he gets into the car, and when he pulls up to his own apartment on the other side of town, there’s a thumbs up emoji in the Tinder DM and a text from an unknown number that reads: _Claude here. Bedtime for me, but it was nice to chat. Looking forward to Friday._

 _Me too_ , Lorenz says, and adds a little smiley face for flair.

* * *

“Knock-knoooock, anyone home?”

“Heya, Hil. Come on in.” Claude leans back against the wall to make room as Hilda barges inside, arms full of… “What the hell _is_ that?”

“It’s a _monstera deliciosa!_ That’s Adrestian for cheese, I think? I got it for your housewarming gift. Well, one of them. Where should we put you, sweet thing?” Hilda coos, oblivious to the way the enormous, hole-ridden leaves buffet her face with every step. “How about in the kitchen, where he has to look at you every day and not forget you exist..”

Claude trails her a bit helplessly through his new apartment, idly scraping half-dried paint from his overalls. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” he tries as Hilda settles the _monstera_ in a place of pride next to his kitchen window. It does add a certain _freshness_ to the space, a splash of dark green against the glossy creme color of the walls, but even as he admires its unusual shapes he can’t help thinking of all the innocent succulents he’s killed over the years, despite Petra’s best efforts.

“Why on earth not? You know I love buying you presents, baby.” Hilda nudges the pot to the left a little and stands back, hands on hips. “What do you think? You only have to remember to water it once a week. Even _you_ can’t possibly fuck it up, there’s instructions on the tag. Now, what do we say.”

Claude sighs, but he’s smiling. “Thank you, bestie.”

“Attaboy.” Hilda slings an arm around his shoulder for the express purpose of giving him a noogie. “You’re _filthy_ , did you forget we were getting dinner?”

“Of course I didn’t forget. It’ll take my five seconds to shower and change.”

“Uh-huh. Well it’s not like we have a reservation, so whatever.” Hilda disappears for the living room, and he can hear the _fwomp_ of her descending upon the brand new couch with extravagant delight. “Did you want to order in?” she shouts without heed for his neighbors. It’s fine, the walls seem pretty sturdy; he’d barely even heard them having bed-shaking sex last night at 2 AM.

“That sounds nice,” he calls back. He washes his hands in the sink, scrubbing ineffectually at a streak of white that refuses to come off, and dries them on the bib of his overalls. “There’s a pho place down the street I’ve been wanting to try.”

He pads into the living room to find Hilda already scrolling her phone for the menu. “I’ll order, you shower. Perfect. What do you want?”

Claude peers over her shoulder to make his selection, and leaves her to her scrolling. The shower here gets nice and hot, hotter than it ever did at the old place, and without the time crunch lighting a fire under him, he stands for a few minutes and just lets it pelt his body into a rubbery, relaxed goo.

It’s weird, having a place to himself. It had been a relief at first, moving out of Hilda and Edie’s place, which was just right for two romantic partners but _definitely_ a tight squeeze with a third wheel thrown in the mix. But now, abruptly, he’s adrift. He doesn’t know how to navigate it—the place, or the feeling. The _newness_ probably has something to do with it, the not-quite-rightness that trails him wherever he goes, but he still catches himself turning to ask someone’s opinion, or rearranging his toiletries to make room for bottles and jars that aren't there. Not to mention the hundred and one things missing that he still needs to replace. Half his spice cupboard is gone, his plates are mismatched, the curtains are stale non-colors from the local IKEA instead of colorful, homemade drapes. And all his towels are _ass_. He scrubs his body with a prickly, bone-dry hand-me-down and throws it into the hamper with a sigh. _Add it to the list._

He can hear Hilda on the phone in the other room placing their order as he changes: overalls for sweatpants, undershirt for a soft jumper Hilda got him for Christmas. That’s one small blessing. He’d accumulated a lot of clothes over the years through birthdays and holidays that he no longer feels like wearing, and Hilda, shopaholic that she is, has course-corrected his wardrobe a lot in the last couple of months. Sometimes he thinks she’s the only reason he’s not walking around in his underwear half the time.

So it’s not all bad. New clothes, new apartment, new phone. New… Tinder profile. He wrinkles his nose as he checks his notifications. No one interesting today. He’d set it up a few weeks ago at Hilda and Edie’s insistence, and apart from one casual— _very_ casual—hookup with a snarky redhead, he hasn’t had any matches worth bothering with.

 _Worth a try_ he thinks, shoving his phone back into his pocket. At least it’s good for blowing off steam. Shaking the rust off.

He rejoins Hilda in the living room to find she’s started up the TV and is flicking through the offerings. “What are we watching?”

“Remember how you said you hadn’t seen like _any_ Zac Efron movies and we thought Lysithea was going to rip your spine out?”

“I remember.”

“Well I have the solution: we’re gonna watch _High School Musical 2_.”

Claude gives her a bemused look. “Why the second one?”

“Because Troy is hotter in it, don’t ask stupid questions. Also it’s gayer.” She bats her eyes innocently at his dubious stare. “The food will be here in twenty minutes, so if we get that far and you hate it we can pick something else.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says, and flops next to her on the couch, already resigned to the fact that he won’t pick something else. Hilda is a difficult person for him to disappoint, especially after everything she’s done for him the last few months, so he’ll put up with a bit of song and dance—literally—if i’ll make her happy. And after all the work he’s put in today, the very idea of picking something to watch is exhausting.

He still checks his phone almost immediately when he feels the distinctive Tinder _bz-zzt_ against his thigh. The food has arrived by now, and between that and the bright splash of mid-2000’s showboating on the screen, Hilda is sufficiently distracted. Thus absolved of guilt, at least temporarily, he slides his phone out of his pocket with one hand and nearly spits out his food at the notification awaiting him.

_You have a match!_

Not the first he’s had today, but when he opens the notification he thinks this might be the first one he actually responds to.

He’d found Lorenz’s profile a couple days ago, sitting on a park bench a few blocks from his apartment in an effort to get some actual sunshine. Taking the week off work to focus on moving and doing some light reno had seemed like a good idea at the time, but the reality of it was stifling. He could only keep himself busy for so long, turn up the music only so loud, before the volume of his thoughts drowned everything else out. He felt like a too-small snail in a too-big shell with nothing to focus his attention. And when he _had_ tried to log into his email and catch up on a few things, his boss had promptly Slacked him and told him to go relax.

So instead he started taking daily walks. There’s a park down the street from his new place that’s rife with people walking their dogs and throwing a frisbee around on weekends—it’s a wholesome kind of place, friendly, but going for walks by himself is still one of those weird, transitory things that feels subtly _wrong_. Like people are looking at him and wondering what he’s doing by himself. Hell, _he_ still wonders that sometimes. But if he keeps his nose in his phone he can shrug off those imagined stares, turn the dial on his anxiety down to a dull roar. And swiping on Tinder is easy, and gave him something to do that was “improvement.” Something to report to his therapist, and his friends, to prove that he was _moving on._

He _was_. He was definitely moving on. He’d fucked a total stranger last week and _enjoyed himself_. And now he’s looking at the profile of a handsome, clean-cut, queer as fuck thirty-something, feeling that pleasant chemical tingle in his brain of being seen and admired.

 _Lorenz, 33, looking for men._ His profile blurb says “self-employed,” which could mean anything, but he dresses too nicely— _is that suit Balenciaga?_ —to be a total dud. He only has two pictures, one a closeup that resembles a LinkedIn headshot, the other a photo that’s just a _little_ too posed to be candid, but still has an unstudied air that Claude finds charming. Or maybe it’s the subject: the man himself, sporting a striking asymmetrical long cut that wouldn’t be out of place on an avant-garde runway, holding the reins of a gorgeous white horse. While dressed like a haute couture model, because why not. He appears to be feeding the horse a piece of apple, and the camera caught him smiling just at the edge of trying too hard, like he’s about to break into genuine laughter.

Claude is looking at the photo in question when his phone thrums in his hand and a banner notification announces a new DM. Lorenz has apparently had the first word.

“Are you even paying attention at _all_?” Hilda whines, finally needling him in the side with her surprisingly sharp elbow.

“Obviously not,” Claude says as he flicks open the message. He bites at the smile manifesting across his lower lip, to no avail. _Gods, he’s cute. So proper._

“What are you smiling at? This is a pivotal moment in the plot, Claude!”

“Just give me a second.” He fires off a reply, not wanting to leave him hanging, and turns the phone to her. “Jackpot.”

He knows she’s invested because she doesn’t even bother pausing the movie. In the opening stages of a musical number, no less! Instead she snatches the phone from his hand and reads the messages with an open mouth, then swipes to look at his profile. “Wow, he’s so… femme. I didn’t think that was your type.”

“He’s cute though, right?”

“ _So_ cute. He talks like a fifty-year-old investment banker, but he’s _cute_.”

“Oh, shut up. I think it’s refreshing.” He grabs his phone back before she can wreak serious havoc and finds the thread of the conversation. “Would you categorize me as an _in-person_ guy, Hil?”

“As in you’re bad at replying to texts in a timely fashion, and you alternate between single-syllable responses and entire paragraphs in the group chat? Yes, I would say you’re an _in-person guy_.”

Claude types, hesitates, types some more, deletes, sends. On the television, a pitchy blonde is throwing a musical fit. Claude cringes and instinctively sends another text.

“I’m going too fast, aren’t I.” He puts his phone down, picks it back up again. “This is stupid. I feel like a high schooler. Ugh, it’s this movie, it’s put me in a weird headspace! Hil!”

“It’s not stupid!” Hilda finally takes pity on him and eases the volume down a few degrees. “It’s cute! You’re so cute when you have a crush, Claude. Are you going to see him?”

“I don’t know yet. We’ll have to wait and see if I immediately scared him off.”

“Don’t be silly, you were very sweet and earnest. Even if you _did_ call High School Musical 2 _boring_.”

“Whoops.”

“Yeah, yeah. I guess I can forgive you if it gets you a date.”

As if on cue, the reply comes in. Claude can’t help breathing a sigh of relief. _Well we can’t have you perishing of boredom quite yet, we’ve only just met._

“See? You’re in the clear,” Hilda says, and easily dodges him when he swipes at her for reading over his shoulder. “Okayyyyy I’ll leave you alone. I’m gonna make myself a cocktail, do you want anything?”

Claude thinks of the inevitable conversation he’s going to have to have, and the coin toss of the outcome, and says, “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

But it turns out he needn’t have worried. Lorenz is overly cautious in his reply, but in the sweet sort of way that Claude appreciates, and it’s certainly better than waffling around. And the “mostly” has Claude’s brain whirring, but it’s definitely too early to dive into _that_ particular conversation, so he lets it go for now.

Then there’s a bit of a lull, during which he and Hilda get mildly smashed on soda and butterscotch schnapps and they _finally_ finish the movie. Normally Claude would let the convo slide and pick it up again tomorrow, but he’s just loose and bubbly enough, and smitten enough with this lanky elegant creature who looks like a model and talks like a… like a bloody _investment banker_ , that he follows up his blatant offer of a date with something a little less pushy.

 _Or we can meet somewhere,_ he types out, painstakingly slow to make sure he doesn’t make any embarrassing half-drunk typos. _I’ll eat almost anything, you can pick the place._

Is he desperate? No. Well, maybe. He’s had fun doing the booty call thing, but it’s starting to feel kind of trashy and hollow, too much like an escape and not enough like healing. He doesn’t mind casual as long as it’s more than just a warm body. Something to enrich the mind, something that will poke a stick at his miserable romantic spirit and nudge it out of the dank cave it’s made its home in for the last few months.

He misses going on dates, and late night conversations. He misses laughing himself sick over inside jokes. Things like that take time to cultivate, but if all he gets out of this is a new friend, he’ll count himself lucky.

The response comes a few minutes later. _Tangerine_. He’s heard of the place; it’s sort of new, cropped up in the ritzy art district part of town.

“Ooooh, I’ve been there!” Hilda says when he asks. They’ve migrated to the bedroom, since she’s too drunk to drive home and he splurged on a brand new king-sized mattress for the express purpose of sharing without having to worry about crowding his bedmate. She bounces a few times on the edge to test the give and flops backwards, feet in the air. “The food is soooo good, like four star stuff. The chef is from Adrestia, I think? But like southern Adrestia, where they have a lot of Brigidese and Dagdan influences, so it’s like. Good.”

“I won’t tell Edie you said that.”

“Oh my god, please, she would laugh her ass off. Anyway yeah, it’s good. Pretty pricy though, damn.”

“He offered to foot the bill,” Claude informs her.

“ _Ooooh_. So either he’s like, super rich and doesn’t even notice a couple hundred dollars here or there, or he’s _pretending_ he’s super rich to impress you.” She folds her arms behind her head and cranes her neck to look at him where he’s propped up against the pillows, phone in hand. “Which would you rather?”

“I mean, I don’t care either way, I guess? It doesn’t make a difference to me how much money he has.”

“What if he’s, like, a… a whatchamacallit.”

“A which?”

“A gold digger!” Hilda yells, triumphant at remembering her words.

“I don’t put my job in my Tinder bio, Hil, I’m smarter than that.”

“Yeah but like, maybe he googled you and he knows who you are.”

Claude squints at the screen and scratches his nose, reading back over their DMs. “Maybe. I guess I’ll find out on Friday.”

That does give him an idea. While Hilda settles in for some rhythm games on her phone, cursing under her breath whenever she misses, Claude searches _Lorenz Derdriu_ , _Lorenz horses_ , and _Lorenz model Leicester_ in hopes of finding something interesting. Lorenz is an unusual name, after all. But he must not have done anything noteworthy, not to mention having zero to no social media presence, because Claude can’t find anything pertinent to the _Lorenz from Tinder_ now living in his phone’s contact list.

After receiving Lorenz’s good night text (is this something they’re doing already? Is it going to be a habit? Too early to tell) he waits to see if he’ll send anything else, but Lorenz has apparently gone off to bed himself, the way boring adult people do at eleven PM on a Friday. He _does_ get a text from Edelgard, inquiring after her girlfriend, which finally jars him out of his sleepy-tipsy googling trance.

Hilda with you?  
  
yeah she’s with me. battling hard over here lol  
  
I see. Tell her good night for me, please.  
  
will do. thanks for letting me borrow her  
  
It’s good for her to have a Project. No offense.  
  
none taken. Night edie  
  
Goodnight, Claude.  
  


“Edie says goodnight, Hil,” he tells her when she finally relaxes between bouts.

“Oh, fuck! I should call her. Thanks Claude.” She rolls over abruptly, plants a sweet, sticky kiss to the side of his face, and bounds out of bed again like she’s a human spring, wound up and ready to leap at the slightest provocation. She closes the bedroom door behind her—very courteously, he thinks—and Claude flops onto his back, forcibly putting his phone facedown and out of reach.

He falls asleep wondering what he should wear, and wakes up to an empty apartment, a glass of water by the bed, and a note that says _check the left side of your closet dumbass. love u xoxo_

After washing the taste of sour schnapps from his mouth, he goes to check the closet. An outfit is waiting for him, hung neatly apart from the rest of his clothes: slim-fit slacks that Hilda always tells him makes his ass look great, a black buttondown two shades darker than the pants, and a goldenrod-colored suit jacket that he vaguely remembers buying for an event and never actually wearing it. Too colorful by half for a legal counsel, but maybe just right for impressing a fancy first date.

and shoes?  
  
the snakeskin ones  
  
no socks  
  
if you say so  
  
i do say so. ur gonna crush it bby don’t even stress  
  
thanks Hil. i really owe you for this one  
  
the price of my services is a screening of High School Musical 3  
  
you drive a hard bargain  
  
dw im open to negotiation ;)  
  
when r u back to work?  
  
monday. So nothing to take my mind off it between then and now  
  
F  
  
come for dinner tonight we’re making bbq  
  


Claude sends a thumbs up emoji and turns back to his closet. The yellow jacket hangs like a portent of… something. Maybe doom, maybe something entirely different. He reaches out to smooth the fabric flat and smiles to find the little golden antler lapel pins waiting for him in the inside pocket.

Whichever it is, he thinks he’s excited to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i went back and forth over who claude's ex would be for ages and landed on petra, sorry petra ilysm ;-; don't worry she is living her best life. this is not me trying to shit on any ships lol i just needed to pick someone that would work with this story, and she seemed like the type of brilliant, motivated person to pursue her dreams even if they led her away from a boyfriend (more on that later)
> 
> Huge thanks to CodenameCarrot and La_Temperanza, who made this very accessible document on how to code text messages into AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6434845
> 
> And yes I named Lorenz's son after the gay Italian from the old guard and one of the aristocats, do not @ me


	2. the date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the First Date~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please turn on creator's style for proper formatting!

“Come onnnn, pick up, pick up…”

 _Click_. “Lorenz?”

“Oh thank goodness. Are you busy?”

“I’m just taking care of a few paperwork things at the barn before I have to pick Nicky up from daycare. Why, did you need something?”

Marianne’s voice is brisk but calm, and as usual it puts him immediately at ease. Lorenz’s shoulders slump along with the rest of him, taking him right down to the edge of the bed where he has a direct view into the chaos of his closet. “Well… sort of. I thought I knew what I was going to wear, but I’m second guessing myself.” _And triple, and quadruple…_ “I… I’m not sure I can do this.”

“Lorenz.” Mari’s voice takes on a stern tone, one she’s perfected over the years since they had Nicky. “You _can_. You can, and you will, if I have anything to say about it. What’s changed?” She clucks her tongue at his conspicuous silence. “It’s normal to be nervous, Lorrie. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“It’s horrible and awkward and scares me off dating forever.”

In his ear, Marianne giggles. _Giggles_. The nerve! “A little awkwardness never killed anyone, Lorenz. And besides, first dates usually are. It can’t be helped. But you’re a very good conversationalist, and _very_ good at making other people feel comfortable. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

Despite the nerves still squeezing at his insides, her words are reassuring. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

“It’s just the truth,” she says briskly, in the tone of voice that says she’s preparing to hang up. Anxiety grips him again, but he swallows it down, forcing himself to see the ridiculousness of the situation. “You’re going to do fine. And do you want my advice?”

“Always.”

“I’m no fashionista like you, but my one rule is: if you feel comfortable in it, you’ll feel confident. It doesn’t have to be the most perfectly tailored thing in your closet, as long as it sits easy on your shoulders you’ll shine.”

“Thank you, Mari,” he says humbly.

“Any time. Now, I really would love to chat but I have to finish up here and go get Nicky.”

“Of course, yes, I’m sorry for keeping you.” He chews his lower lip briefly. “What, uh, do you have any plans this evening?”

“Lorenz…”

“I’m just curious!”

“You’re _stalling_. But to answer your question, yes, we’re going to go to the boardwalk and get hotdogs and visit the harbor seals. Nicky is convinced he’s befriended one and is very concerned about making sure they get enough food.”

Lorenz smiles against the receiver. “That sounds like him.” He sighs. “Well.”

“ _Well_.”

“Goodbye then. Give him my love, please. He doesn’t—did you tell him what I was doing tonight?”

“Of course not, silly. That’s your call to make, not mine.” On the other end he hears rustling and voices, and then Marianne laughing at something he can’t quite hear, softened from behind her hand. “Okay, I really do have to go. Have a wonderful time, I want to hear everything.”

Lorenz rolls his eyes. “Yes, Mum.”

Marianne just laughs and hangs up on him. Deservedly so. He tosses his phone to the duvet and sighs, looking over the clothes he’s laid out on the bed. Three suits, a few turtlenecks, two buttondown shirts in very slightly different shades of white, another in charcoal grey. All of them plain, drab colors. Boring colors. Colors that won’t scare away a man who looks like he goes rock climbing on the weekends and goes for beers with his mates after.

Lorenz groans and puts his head in his hands. “Comfortable,” he reminds himself. “If you feel comfortable, you’ll feel confident.”

It’s good advice. Marianne is very wise in many ways, most of which he’s only learned in the last year or so. It’s a shame, but at the same time he’s grateful to be the beneficiary of it now.

With a burst of renewed energy, he sweeps the collected outfits off the bed and returns to his closet with a fresh eye. He moves on instinct, selecting colors and fabrics that he knows feel good against his skin, even plucking a pair of little-worn boots from the back where they were hiding with a few other items of… he hesitates to call them _women’s clothes_ , although that’s what they were marketed as. Clothes that would make his father have an apoplectic fit, in truth. He snorts and tosses everything onto the bed for perusal. _Yes. This is more like it._

He starts with the shirt, a pale lilac number whose buttons are hidden by a generous ruffled lapel that falls past the bottom hem like an undone cravat. It fits a little loosely, not tailored to hug his frame, and he likes the swish of it against his skin when he moves.

Then he steps into a pair of deep plum slacks, so dark they’re nearly black, fitted close in the waist and hips and cut off just below the calf. The matching jacket settles over him like a well-worn sweater, tailored neatly to the unusually long cut of his arms without hugging too tight in the shoulders.

Last come the boots. Matte black leather, toes slightly pointed, heels slightly lifted—only enough to bring from from 188 to 190, hardly noticeable—and, most importantly, putting his slim ankles on glorious display. He puts his hands in his pockets and strolls to the mirror to observe himself with a critical eye. Colorful, but understated. He frowns. Maybe a bit _too_ understated.

Bolstered by the pep talk and his wardrobe change, he goes to his vanity and selects a pair of golden half-hoop earrings. They’d been a Christmas gift for Marianne two years ago, the same year they’d finally looked at one another and realized they no longer wanted to keep up the charade. He remembers vividly the day they picked them out. They were a little tipsy from their mulled wine-fueled conversation at lunch, punch-drunk on the plans they’d finally dared to speak out loud. Marianne walked with her arm through his, giggling into his shoulder, honest laughter for the first time in a long time as they selected the earrings and had them boxed up. Christmas day Mari had opened them at the stiff, overly-formal family gathering, expressed her appreciation appropriately, and swapped them a few hours later for the fine leather riding gloves she’d purchased for Lorenz.

It was the start of their rebellion. A small start, but potent. He wears them for special occasions, the days he needs a boost—a reminder of how far they’ve come. They’ve been sitting in his vanity for a little while now, untouched since the day he wore them to sign their finalized divorce papers. Frankly, today seems like the perfect excuse to wear them again.

Lorenz smiles when he puts them on, turning his head back and forth to watch them catch the light. Then he sweeps his hair back into a neat roped chignon at the back of his head, captions it with a golden rose-shaped pin, and snaps a selfie to send to Marianne.

For posterity.  
  
you look STUNNING  
  
you're going to sweep him off his feet  
  


Lorenz checks his watch and takes a bracing breath. _I suppose we’re about to find out._

><

Claude detests the concept of being _fashionably late_ , but it feels rude to mention it, so he strolls up the busy sidewalk to Tangerine at 6:28 PM expecting to be the first one there. He has a game plan already in case he has to wait—a quick scan of the restaurant’s website told him there was a long, elegant bar for those who wanted an _apéritif_ before dinner, or just some light appetizers—but he’s hardly drawn abreast of the establishment’s enormous windowed facade when a cab pulls up to the curb and a tall, lavender-crowned gentleman steps out with effortless grace.

Claude has the advantage of not being noticed yet, so he stands and watches Lorenz—and it _must_ be Lorenz with hair and legs like that, _hell_ , he’s even taller in person than he looked in his picture—as he pulls a colorful twenty from his wallet and passes it to the driver through the window. _Generous tipper, excellent._

Then Lorenz turns and sees him, and the game is up. Claude grins, half guilt half charm, and lets a small group of people pass him on the sidewalk before making his approach.

“Guess I timed that well, I thought for sure I’d beat you here.”

“I prefer to be punctual as a rule,” Lorenz replies in a voice as elegant as his texting habits had suggested. “You must be Claude.” He sticks out his hand with surprising force and Claude takes it, trying not to laugh at the brusque shake he receives.

“That’s me. This _is_ a date, right? Not a business meeting?”

Like flipping a light switch, an adorable blush suffuses Lorenz’s pale cheeks, and he ducks his head, making his earrings sway and glint in the light spilling out from Tangerine’s windows. “I apologize. Force of habit, I’m afraid.”

“Hey, it’s all right. I don’t think there’s a script for these things.” Claude tilts his head toward the doors. “After you.”

Looking mildly relieved, Lorenz leads the way into the restaurant, Claude close on his heels. The atmosphere matches the view he’d had from outside: warm, appropriately orangey-gold, with ornate accents in mosaiced tile and polished tin. There’s music playing, but it’s faint enough not to be distracting, and although the place is busy, the high ceilings keep the hushed babble of conversation just low enough that he can hear when Lorenz greets the hostess and says, “Table for Gloucester, please. We have a reservation.”

 _Gloucester_. He feels like he recognizes the name but he can’t quite place it. It’s a pretty standard Leicester-y sounding name, so it’s possible he’s just seen it or come across it somewhere since moving to Derdriu, but the tickle in the back of his mind is telling him it’s related to work. After pondering it for a few moments, he shrugs it off to think about later. There are more pressing concerns right now.

Like the fact that the hostess is leading them on a winding path through the dining room toward their table. It’s part of a smaller subsection of the restaurant, with smaller tables instead of booths, down a few steps and beyond a set of pillars that look like the bones left by a renovation. There are six tables, but only two are currently occupied, and they’re seated in their own little alcove near a trickling fountain and left to peruse the drinks offerings. Claude gathers his menu and his imaginary cue cards together in his head like a demure lady’s fan. _Go time._

“This is your first time here, is it not?” Lorenz says, beating him to the punch yet again.

“It is, yeah. But I’ve heard good things. It’s relatively new, isn’t it?”

“They opened a little under a year ago. My—a friend introduced me to it, and I like to bring people here when I want to impress them.”

He says it so shyly but so sincerely—especially after the verbal hiccup that Claude recognizes from within himself—that Claude can’t help laughing. “Well consider me impressed. I’m kind of a terrible gremlin about eating out lately, I tend to get takeout and make a fool of myself in the privacy of my own home. So like I said, thanks for the excuse to dress up.”

“You’re very welcome.” Lorenz’s eyes flit briefly but warmly over Claude’s attire, lingering a bit longer on the chest and shoulder region. “Is that Arnault?”

“I honestly couldn’t tell you,” Claude admits. “It was a gift. I’ve only worn it once, but I figured tonight was as good a chance as any to dust it off.”

“A bold color choice.” He doesn’t sound disapproving—nor should he, with a top like that, somewhere between a pirate’s shirt and a prince’s sash.

“What can I say, I like to stand out.” Claude returns the _look_ , taking the opportunity to admire the little details: the glint of gold threaded through his ears, the precise fold of his collar, the pale, unblemished length of his neck above the lapel. _Might have to do something about that._ “So do you, seems like.”

Lorenz smiles and turns faintly pink, looking pleased. “I’ve always been interested in fashion, I just haven’t always had the opportunity to express it. So perhaps I am… overcompensating a bit.”

“Well you look amazing,” Claude says honestly. “You’re not a runway model or something, are you?”

“Oh, no!” Lorenz demurs. “I prefer to write about the runway rather than walk on it.”

“Ah! A fashion columnist, then?”

“Not nearly as often as I would like. I do write for the Derdriu Times on occasion, but I only cover the fashion column when their usual isn’t available.”

 _The Times… impressive. Maybe that’s how I know the name._ Trying not to seem like he’s digging for more dirt, Claude asks, “So why the recent foray into fashion, if not for the runway? Work dress codes keeping you down, or something?”

“More or less.” A bit evasive, but Claude isn’t going to press him—wouldn’t, anyway, but then _can’t_ when their waiter materializes to take their drinks order and he realizes, to his embarrassment, that he’s forgotten to look at the menu.

“Glenlivet, neat,” he says, his fallback when he’s in a bind.

“What year, sir?”

“Ah… do you have 18?”

“Yes sir, we have through twenty-five, as well as a few novelty editions.”

“Eighteen will be fine, thank you.”

“And for you sir?”

Lorenz requests a chilled _Sylviane_ rosé and politely slides his menu closed to hand to their server. Claude is prepared to steer the conversation in a different direction, but when they’re alone again Lorenz picks up the thread right where they left off and says, “I was a businessman for many years, as you realized the moment we met. For my father’s company. He’s a very… shall we say, _traditional_ sort of man, and the dress code at work was very strict, especially for me. Now that I’m a freelancer I can dress however I please, so you could say I’m making up for lost time.”

“Cheers to that,” Claude says, and grabs his water glass. “Until the drinks come.”

Lorenz laughs and clinks their glasses together, and when Claude takes a sip, the ice water tastes sweet going down.

><

Lorenz had not intended to get _drunk_ , per se—only to enjoy enough alcohol to take the edge of nervousness off, pare his mannerisms down to something more socially acceptable. But Claude is just as easy to talk to in person as he’d been over text, and Lorenz barely remembers to sip his wine throughout their appetizer of clams with tomato-saffron confit.

They’ve touched on what feels like a hundred different topics by the time the main course arrives. He learns that Claude studied law, and now employs it working for the local chapter of the Leicester Civil Liberties Union; that he’s thinking about getting a dog but isn’t sure yet; that he likes to cook but rarely has the energy. Claude in turn is curious about everything, but politely skirts the issue of Lorenz’s previous relationship, asking instead about his work, his education, whether he really rides horses for fun.

“That wasn’t my idea,” Lorenz quickly says to the latter. He doesn’t mean to be amusing, but Claude’s eyes grow bright and crinkly at the edges, and he has to drop his eyes to his plate to keep from smiling back like an idiot. “It was—well, you must promise not to laugh.”

“You drive a hard bargain, but I’ll do my best.”

“The truth is that I don’t have a lot of pictures of myself that I actually like, and I was my friend’s barn for a race—”

“Your friend owns a _barn_? Wait, were _you_ in the race?”

“I was not! I don’t… really ride much. Not professionally, certainly, I’m far too tall to be a jockey,” Lorenz says, perhaps a bit stuffily, and Claude giggles. _Giggles_. Lorenz takes a sip of wine for fortification. “And my friend—” he’s really going to have to learn how to say _ex-wife_ out loud, one of these days, “she helps run her parents’ various equestrian endeavors, so it’s not that she owns the barn, but more the business side of things. But regardless, there was a race, and afterward we were all a bit silly with champagne, and someone got it into their heads that I should pose with a horse. Unfortunately I just tipsy enough to take her up on it.”

“Why do you say unfortunate?” Claude protests. “You looked very dashing, I thought.”

Lorenz runs this thumb along the stem of his glass. “I thought perhaps it was… _too much_.”

“Please. It was just right. It was just unusual enough to be eye-catching, plus you’re handsome enough to pull it off.”

This time he has no defense against the blush that warms his cheeks. “Well. Leonie is a good photographer.”

“Leonie is your horse-business friend?”

“No, she’s my wife’s—ah. My ex-wife’s friend.” The blush deepens, this time with embarrassment. “Sorry, didn’t mean for it to come out that way. Or to make a secret of it.”

“That’s all right.” Claude looks mildly surprised, but not upset—either that, or he’s very good at hiding his feelings behind a politely nondescript expression. “You did mention a previous relationship.”

“Yes, but marriage is a bit more than… well.” He shortens that thought, not wanting to tread on any toes. “That’s another story. Suffice to say our separation was amicable, and my ex-wife is part of the reason I started a Tinder account at all. I know it’s a bit unorthodox.”

“It’s… not what I expected,” Claude admits. “But I’m a little impressed, honestly. You seem pretty put together for a divorcee.”

“It wasn’t exactly a love match.” Lorenz takes another sip of wine to steady himself. This isn’t where he’d foreseen tonight going, but they’re on the topic now, so there’s no point in hiding it. “We married to satisfy our parents’ expectations, but in the end we decided we’d rather… live independently of all that, and of each other.” It’s on the tip of his tongue to mention Nicky, too, but something holds him back. It feels like too much on top of everything else, and he’d prefer to ask Marianne before telling anyone about his son. Perhaps it’s a bit paranoid, but he’d rather protect Nicky’s privacy even at the expense of honesty, at least for right now.

“I know a little bit about parental expectations,” Claude says, without a trace of the confusion or judgement Lorenz had been braced for. “It’s difficult to balance, to say the least. I appreciate you telling me.”

“Please don’t feel that you need to return the favor,” Lorenz hastens to assure him. “This is a first date, not an inquisition.”

“Oh, it’s all right. Maybe it’s better to get it out of the way, and since we’re already on the topic…” Claude leans his elbows on the table, forearms acting like a protective barrier between himself and the rest of the room. “I don’t know how far out you are from everything, but until a couple months ago I thought I was going to be getting married.”

Lorenz winces. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, it’s… I think better for us both in the long run. Her and me, I mean. Well.” He pauses to offer a wink, a punch of helium to an otherwise lead balloon. “Maybe better for _us_ , too. Time will tell. But anyway, yeah, classic misunderstanding… I was gearing up to propose, and she was gearing up to leave me.”

“It didn’t come to a head at the same time, I hope.”

“Almost. I think she sensed I was planning something—we had gone on a dinner date, and a walk afterwards—sorry, this is a lot of detail, I don’t mean to make this uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Lorenz says honestly. “And besides, I’m the one who dropped the ex-wife into our conversation, so it only seems fair.”

“I’m a bit envious, to tell the truth.”

“Of _me_?”

“Yeah. You said she helped you with your Tinder profile, right? It sounds like you’re still good friends.”

“We are. I’m very lucky,” Lorenz admits. Privately he thinks that even if they hadn’t had Nicky, he and Marianne would still be close. “What we went through together… well, it’s the sort of thing that is hard to explain to other people. We’ll always have that history, I suppose.”

“I’m glad for you, honestly. Petra was my friend before she was my girlfriend, and I guess I got used to having her around. Someone to rely on, you know? Maybe it was turning into habit more than a relationship, but it was comfortable, and I thought I was ready to make that step. Make it official. But it turned out she had dreams elsewhere, and wanted to pursue them. And I support her, of course, I’m happy for her, but I still sort of feel like I lost my best friend.” Claude laughs, a bit strained around the edges. “Sorry, didn’t mean to get all maudlin. I have a great therapist, so don’t worry about having that role thrust upon you.”

“Cheers,” Lorenz murmurs, tilting his wineglass before draining it. “You didn’t think of following her?”

“I thought about it, sure. Briefly. But I like living here, I love my job, it’s everything I dreamed of doing when I was in school. She wanted to go back to her home country and do nonprofit work, which is amazing and commendable, but not… not what I wanted.” He squints and pinches the bridge of his nose. “That makes me sound like an asshole, doesn’t it.”

“Of course not. You know what you want, and what’s important to you. That kind of security of self can be difficult to come by. I don’t think I learned how to cultivate it until after I was already married. And consider: it is easier to rekindle a relationship that might work at some other time or place in your life than it is to marry and realize later it isn’t what you hoped it would be. So. Take that grain of dubious wisdom however you will.”

Claude gives him a disbelieving smile. “Are you… encouraging me to not give up on her?”

“I’m just saying, life never tires of surprising us. Enjoy where you are now, and whatever the future holds will come when it’s ready.”

“That is… very insightful,” Claude says, sobering a little.

“How long have you been single?”

“Ah—almost four months.”

“Right. So I have an advantage of… about a year’s worth of therapy, give or take,” Lorenz points out, sluggishly doing the math in his head. Perhaps he’s had more wine tonight than he realized. “Don’t worry, you can have that one for free. I won’t make a habit of it.”

Claude laughs. “Hey, don’t apologize. I just don’t want you to think that your indubitable wisdom is the _only_ thing I like about you.”

“It’s not?” Lorenz asks, feigning surprise.

“What can I say, I like a man who knows how to let me jabber on for hours without letting slip that he’s bored.”

“Claude,” Lorenz says sternly, with that funny sort of feeling in his mouth that comes from saying someone’s name to their face for the first time, “I assure you, I am not bored. And if I’m a good listener, it’s only that I’m returning the favor after you listened to me ramble about my job and my ex-wife.”

“You have a nice voice. No, really! Like you should be on the stage, doing dramatic readings.”

“Goddess forbid,” Lorenz shudders.

“Not a stage man?”

“Not at all. Presenting at meetings was my least favorite part of my previous job. Now I just have to sell myself over the phone or one on one at a lunch meeting—or sell my work, rather.”

“I knew what you meant,” Claude assures him, winking.

He looks like he wants to say something more, but he’s interrupted by the arrival of their server. Lorenz is surprised to find their plates cleared and their glasses very nearly in need of refilling. _Has time really passed so quickly?_

“Dessert?” Claude asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Well… perhaps something light,” Lorenz agrees, and reaches for the menu.

><

They’re halfway through a shared tiramisu sampler platter when they realize they went to the same school for their undergraduate degrees. Claude can’t for the life of him remember seeing Lorenz on campus, but their programs had very little overlap. Still, he thinks he’d remember a gangly purple business major striding across Garreg Mach with his little briefcase bumping industriously against his hip.

“My hair was shorter then,” Lorenz says with a bit of a rueful twist to his mouth. He sweetens it with a delicate bite of matcha tiramisu, which slips between his lips without leaving so much as a sprinkle of powder behind. _Shame_.

“So was mine. So was… all of me, really.” Claude rests his chin in his hand and takes a delicate spoonful of the chocolate-hazelnut. “Did you live on campus?”

“No, I had an apartment.”

“ _Fan_ cy.”

“My father is a wealthy man, and prefers to make sure everyone knows it. I was still very much under his wing at that time.”

“Well I lived on campus, so that probably explains why we didn’t run into each other,” Claude says, glossing past the look of discomfort on Lorenz’s face. “Surely we had _some_ overlap, though, with all the gen eds they make first years take. Did you take Religion and Philosophy with Doctor Seteth? He was always such a fucking stickler, we got into it at least once a week.”

“He docked me points whenever I used reference material he didn’t _approve of_ ,” Lorenz groans. “I understand having high standards for the resources you want your students reading, but he took it to an extreme that made it difficult to refute him.”

“I think that was the point,” Claude says. “Which doesn’t make much sense to me—I actually ended up transferring to Professor Eisner’s class. She let us debate each other the entire time, it was great.”

“Did you ever stand on a desk to make your point?”

Claude scoffs at the question, although he definitely remembers doing that—just the one time, and it had been _so_ worth it for the look on Edie’s face. Come to think of it that was the first day they ever spoke to one another. It had taken her three years and a date with his best friend to forgive him. “Why would you ask such a ridiculous question?”

Lorenz’s eyes gleam with amusement, undeterred. “You seem like the type of student to enjoy causing a ruckus.”

“Such slander! I can’t believe this.”

“That’s not a no.”

“Okay, fine, there was _one_ time—”

Lorenz dissolves into giggles before he can finish, and Claude subsides, biting down on a smile. Lorenz is so _charming_ when he laughs, pink cheeks turning cherry-red, a wisp of lavender hair coming free from his neat chignon to tickle his jaw. Claude sort of wants to reach out and tuck it behind his ear. That’s probably a bad idea.

“What’s this fourth kind of tiramisu?” he asks instead, directing Lorenz’s attention to their plate. “I forget what was on the menu.”

“Hmm… turmeric, pink peppercorn, and tangerine.” Lorenz’s voice swoops up, dubious, but his spoon is at the ready, tucking aside the ornamental fan of golden sugar sprouting to either side of the miniature tiramisu like wings. “Sounds a bit adventurous, even for me, but I’m willing to give it a go if you are.”

“Adventurous! I like it.” Claude cuts the piece in half with his spoon, admiring the layer of golden citrine syrup as it oozes from between the layers of cream and powdered turmeric. “On three?”

“One.”

“Two.”

“ _Three_.”

Claude takes a bite, but his focus is on his date. Lorenz shuts his eyes to better taste the dessert against his palate, and his brows draw together slightly in concentration. A slight dot of cream has escaped his lips, sitting at the corner of his mouth unnoticed.

“Good?” Claude asks.

“Very. Not what I was expecting. It’s almost… savory, but not quite…”

“Here.” Claude reaches out slowly, giving him time to pull away. He doesn’t. Claude’s thumb touches his lower lip and wipes away the cream. Lorenz’s skin is very soft against his knuckles, lips damp with wine and sugar. Their eyes meet. “You had a little…”

Lorenz smiles crookedly, and tucks the stray thread of hair behind his ear. “Thank you.”

He’s blushing, and so is Claude, heart hammering in his chest. _Wow. Where did that come from?_ He hasn’t felt this kind of spark in a long time, tingling and sharp-edged with novelty, warm in his belly when he looks at Lorenz’s pink mouth and thinks about kissing it. He finishes his half of the tiramisu to avoid dwelling on it, but all he can think about is how the sweet-tart-spicy flavor would taste on Lorenz’s lips.

“Pardon me, gentlemen.” Their server has returned, and there’s a knowing edge to their polite expression. Claude wonders if they can feel the tension in the air the way he can feel it twanging at his neck like a wire ready to snap. “The dining room is closing soon, but if you’d like, our bar area is open for another two hours.”

Lorenz gapes. “It’s already ten?”

“Time flies when you’re having fun?” Claude suggests. “I’ll take the check, thank you.”

When their server has gone, Lorenz arches an imperious eyebrow at him. “I said I would pay.”

“And I said it wasn’t a problem. You can foot the bill next time.” Claude licks a bit of leftover cream from his spoon, all innocence. “If you want there to be a next time, that is—no pressure.”

“Of course I- I mean yes, I do. I suppose it is getting rather late.”

Lorenz looks like he’s trying very hard not to look disappointed, and Claude feels a rush of satisfaction. “Maybe a drink or two, before we say goodnight?”

“All right. Yes. That sounds very nice.”

Claude pays the bill, pretending not to notice Lorenz adding extra cash to the tip, and they wander to the bar after a brief pit stop. Claude has never had a date who had to use the same restroom as him, but thankfully Tangerine believes in privacy and only offers stalls—he doesn’t think he’s ready for the emotional toll of pretending he’s not tempted to peek at Lorenz’s dick when they’re at the urinals.

They pass another hour and a half at the bar, sipping drinks—a chilled white for Lorenz, gin and tonics for Claude—and talking about everything. Their travels. Their bucket lists. Their firsts: first pets, first dates, first cars.

They skirt the sprawling off-limits zones of Lorenz’s parents and Claude’s ex. Even with alcohol buzzing in his veins, Claude feels sharp, focused on everything Lorenz says, everything he smiles and laughs at. Everything that softens the sad edge to his voice when he talks about his former life. It’s broad strokes, but Claude is tangentially familiar with that class of people, the people who covet their riches and do whatever it takes to keep it in the family. Even if it means making their children miserable. As time ticks on, he finds himself amazed by Lorenz, tha he was able to shake that legacy and try instead to forge his own.

Eventually, though, he begins to feel exhaustion creeping in, despite the liveliness of their conversation. Lorenz picks up on it, and insists on paying for their drinks after Claude’s generosity with dinner. Then they gather their coats and step out into the cool night, blinking like newborn deer foaled in the dark of early evening’s dewfall.

“Do you need a cab?” Claude asks, hand halfway into his pocket for his phone to summon one.

“No, that’s all right. There’s a train stop around the corner that goes very nearly to my front door. You?”

“Nah, I walked. It’s just a few blocks.”

“Right.” Lorenz tucks that fiddly bit of hair back again, lingering on the wet sidewalk. “Thank you for tonight. For dinner, and for…”

“Yeah. Same to you. I wasn’t really expecting… well.” He laughs at himself, drifting nearer. “I had a nice time. And I’d like to see you again, if that’s all right.”

“I am in perfect agreement,” Lorenz says, and it would sound stuffy and stuck-up except that he’s softened from wine and the late hour, and his nose is already slightly pink in the chill of early summer night. “I’ll let you pick the next one, I fear I was a bit overbearing this time.”

“It’s completely fine. A stellar recommendation.” Claude bites the inside of his cheek. He’s out of practice with this kind of thing. Is it too soon for this? Is he overthinking it?

“Text me when you get home safe,” Lorenz says, and after a brief moment of hesitation, swoops in and kisses his cheek.

Close up he smells like lavender, softly herbal with a tinge of floral perfume. Claude leans into it slightly, slowly, feeling like he’s underwater—the sounds of late-night traffic fade, and an impulse rises in him to complete the motion, to bring their lips together properly. But time snaps back into fast-forward, and Lorenz steps away with a pink face, hands plunged deeply into the pockets of his coat.

“Goodnight,” he says. Another step backward, drawing the connection between them thinner and thinner like oil on paper.

“Goodnight,” Claude hears himself say. “I will. Text you, I mean.”

He waits until Lorenz turns the corner before putting his back to the restaurant and his feet toward home. He feels a little giddy, a little distorted. Like the night has warped around him in an unusual shape, an origami crane of smells and sounds and the feeling of rain beginning to drizzle onto his head.

_Bzzt._

He grabs for his phone, chest twisting strangely, but it’s only Hilda. To the group chat, of course, because his love life is apparently cause for much deliberation and discussion.

Hilda  
it’s almost midnight  
the moratorium on texting HAS to be over  
Lysithea  
im a little worried to be honest. what if he’s been kidnapped?  
Edie  
Claude can take care of himself.

Perhaps they are spending the night together. Gay men tend to hop into bed more quickly than gay women, statistically speaking.

Hilda  
oh my god edie  
isn't that kind of like. home of phobic,  
Edie  
Like I said, It’s just statistics. I’m trying to soothe your worries.

Hilda  
IM NOT WORRIED  
lys r u worried  
Lysithea  
i guess edie's right. he's a big boy. mostly i'm just curious tbh  
Hilda  
ok good I trust your intuition  
CLAUDE. ARE YOU BONING LORENZ FROM TINDER OR WHAT  
Lysithea  
HILDA EW  
thats not what I meant by CURIOUS  
Edie  
He’ll respond when he’s ready, leave him alone.

Thank goodness for Edelgard. Claude sighs and sends a winking face, just to fuck with them, and skims over to the other text waiting for him.

Good luck tonight.  
  
Thanks boss. I think it went well.  
  
Also, question for you.  
  
Regarding work, or personal life?  
  
Work. I think.  
  
Ominous, but continue.  
  
Does the name Gloucester ring any bells? I swear I’ve heard it before but I can’t place it.  
  
Information regarding extra-departmental cases is strictly off limits, particularly over private text.  
  
Uhhhh shit. So you can’t tell me?  
  
Per the NDA we all sign when we’re hired I legally can’t. This case was closed before you were even hired.  
  
What if I was dating a Gloucester, like, hypothetically.  
  
First name?  
  
Lorenz.  
  
You should be in the clear. Just don’t bring him up at the water cooler just yet.  
  
Dedue you’re killing me here. Is this guy a con artist or something?  
  
The case did not concern him. His father. That’s all I can say on the matter. In fact it's more than I should be saying in the first place.  
  
He’s estranged from his father, pretty definitively.  
  
Then I reiterate, with emphasis: you should be in the clear.  
  
Thanks, I think.  
  
You know I’m just going to ask Ferdinand for the deets.  
  
I wouldn’t know anything about that.  
  


_Don’t tell me, and I won’t ask._ Claude looks up, feeling as though the rug has been pulled out from under him. Dedue is usually good about circumventing house rules when need be, so to stonewall him out of any information like that… it must really be serious.

It’s starting to rain in earnest now, so he jogs the last half block or so and opens a new message as he waits for the elevator.

Hey Ferdinand, what are you up to tomorrow night?  
  


He doesn’t expect a response right away—Ferdinand has the circadian rhythm of a geriatric librarian—so he undresses numbly and gets in the shower just to try and reset his brain. All the warm, gooey, feel-good first date bubbles have dissolved and turned to heavy lead in his stomach. Tonight had gone _so well_. Too well, he thinks glumly. As if the universe would be so kind.

To his surprise, a new text is waiting for him when he gets out of the shower. Ferdinand must be at his boyfriend’s place, to be up so late.

Nothing in particular. Why do you ask?  
  
Can I buy you a beer or three at the Bridge? I have some questions.  
  
Sounds serious.  
  
It might be. Not sure yet.  
  
Case-related.  
  
I see. You know I’m not easily swayed, von Riegan. If I can’t tell you, I can’t tell you.  
  
That’s fine, I don’t need all the dirty details. Pretty please?  
  
One beer. Connie will murder me if I’m hungover for service.  
  
Deal.  
  


He’s too keyed up to sleep now, and he’s not sure what information he’ll be able to find if the case really was wrapped up before he was hired at LCLU, but it’s worth a shot. He puts the kettle on for tea and sits down at his laptop, opening his work email. In the search bar he types _Gloucester_ , and sits back to watch the results roll in.


End file.
